


New Kind of Stupid

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Distress and Disarray [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, M/M, Peril, Pining, Rank Disparity, Tight Spaces, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 04:14:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15111605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: In which Hamilton's poor judgment results in the best awkward consequences.





	New Kind of Stupid

It's not that he is hesitating. He's too experienced an officer to freeze up at the first sign of danger on a looming horizon.

But he isn't ready to retreat to safety just yet. He wants a better look—a chance to catch this strange phenomenon in image form for Starfleet's scientific archives. Just because he's a comm officer and not a scientist doesn't mean he can't appreciate the chance to add something _tangible_ to the abstract scans and data they've gathered from this planet.

"Alexander." There's mounting concern in Washington's voice, but not an order to stand down.

"Not yet," Hamilton says. "Two more minutes. I want them close enough for a clear picture." He adjusts the settings on the device in his hands, enhancing to capture the image at a greater distance. It still isn't enough. The swarm is too far away.

It's beautiful even from here. Like some massive meteorological event instead of the artificial force of nature it is. Even scanning at full strength, Hamilton sees only a sheening, swooping cloud approaching beneath the glint of sunlight. A gorgeous and mind-distorting swathe of perpetually changing color, casting an improbable mix of shadow and reflection on the canyon floor.

" _Alexander_." Washington sounds slightly more urgent now, but he still doesn't order Hamilton to fall back.

They both stand on a stone-and-metal parapet. The structure is old and abandoned, crumbling at the edges but still sturdy beneath their feet. The last archaeological vestiges of an advanced people.

Not the last trace of them though. Not the last proof they existed.

"Just another minute," Hamilton pleads. He can almost, _almost_ make out individual pieces of the oncoming cloud now, and he is desperate to see.

He feels Washington's heat along his back as the general steps in close behind him. Impatient and protective. But Hamilton can't tear his focus away from the swirling horizon.

"Isn't it incredible?" he says. "Autonomous, self-replicating, no discernible power source. It's _impossible technology_ , and we're looking right at it."

Washington breathes a wry sound and inches closer, so that very suddenly there's no space at all between them. A hand closes high on Hamilton's arm, clear warning that his general is about to cut his sightseeing short. The rest of the away team is already securely below ground, in the camp they've set up in what used to be some kind of hangar bay. Even the scientific team went below without a fuss when the proximity sensors went off.

But Hamilton needs this. Not for the science of it—there is nothing his eyes can discern that the scanning equipment can't do better—but because it shouldn't all be computers and data. They owe it to this world to witness the legacy its people left behind.

"Alexander." _Now_ there is a weight of finality in the sound of his name. "The cloud is closer than it looks."

"It's beautiful." Hamilton grudgingly lowers the scanning device and turns his head away from the horizon. Without the distraction, he is abruptly far too aware of Washington's presence along his back, and of the hand curled tightly around his biceps.

"It's also the likeliest cause of this society's extinction."

A morbid but very real possibility. Before Hamilton can respond, a proximity alarm sounds, jarring and loud. Hamilton's neck twinges as he jerks his head in the direction of the blaring equipment, and his eyes widen at what he sees.

The wave is coming from the wrong direction. Cresting a hill far too close for comfort and bearing down on the southern wall, practically behind them. Practically _on top_ of them. There must be something in that hill obstructing the sensors; a separate swarm should not have been able to get this close undetected.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Hamilton breathes.

He has no time to react before Washington drags him away. Down the nearest stairs toward safety, moving so quickly Hamilton barely notices the bruising strength in his general's hands. There isn't enough time to reach the secured and sealed base camp below, which means they're scrambling for alternatives, Hamilton helping search even as he is manhandled along decaying corridors.

The structure is a disastrous patchwork around them. Stone that must have been elegant once, and more practical metal burnished with time. Electronics and mechanisms that likely haven't functioned for decades.

" _Here_ ," Washington snaps, and shoves Hamilton into a cramped space, following quickly and somehow closing the entrance behind them. Hamilton doesn't see how, but it doesn't matter so long as they're protected from what's coming.

There isn't really enough space for both of them in the sanctuary Washington has found. A smooth metal wall presses cool against Hamilton's spine, counterpoint to his general's impossible heat along his front. As a hum and clatter mounts in the air—the loud and increasingly deafening sound of the swarm moving through halls and arches—the two men struggle to find comfortable positions. Washington taps his comm badge during their awkward scuffling of limbs, but the distinctive chirp goes unanswered. The swarm is giving off more than enough interference to jam standard comm signals.

"Enough." Washington gives a resigned sigh. "Be still, Alexander."

Hamilton obeys with difficulty, ignoring the way his heart beats faster as Washington presses both hands to the wall on either side of him. Powerful arms bracket his body as Washington falls motionless, crushed along Hamilton's front in an unavoidable mockery of an embrace.

"You can probably turn around," Washington offers with an audible trace of discomfort. His breath is warm on Hamilton's cheek, and it's impossible to guess his expression with no way to see his face.

Hamilton closes his eyes. "I don't think that would be any better." Even if it might, the last thing he wants is to make an effort at finding a less intimate position, only for the inevitable friction to cause… problems. He's got this under control at the moment. He doubts that will be true if they start moving around again.

"I'm sorry," Washington says.

Hamilton bursts a laugh of surprise. "For _what_? It's my fault we were on that wall. All you did was save my ass."

Washington exhales a huff that could—just maybe—be an answering laugh. It's a pleasant sensation, being able to _feel_ the rise and fall of Washington's chest. The warmth of pressing so close even though this is not an embrace. Alexander should feel guilty for enjoying it so much, but somehow he cannot manage the trick.

"Try to relax," Washington admonishes with uncharacteristic gentleness. "We're going to be stuck here awhile. You'll exhaust yourself if you stay this tense."

Hamilton bites his tongue, because he doesn't trust himself to speak without offering far too honest a glimpse of _why_ he is tense.

Washington must take his silence the wrong way, because a moment later the general says, "I know this is not ideal."

"It's fine," Hamilton reassures, probably too quickly. It is _more than_ fine; that's the problem.

But Washington's right. This tension will exhaust him, and if Hamilton can't keep his feet then _Washington_ will have to hold him up. Worse, Washington will inevitably assume the worst—that _he_ is making Hamilton uncomfortable—and that's not something Alexander can allow.

"Okay, please don't be offended by this," Hamilton says before his general can find some imagined transgression to apologize for. "Tell me if it isn't okay, but can I just—" And he wraps his arms loosely around Washington's waist, lays his head against the broad shoulder in front of him. It's a hell of a liberty to take, but short of continuing to hold himself at rigid attention Hamilton sees no alternative. He banishes the faint, guilty voice at the back of his thoughts—tells himself he is not taking advantage of the situation—that this is the only practical choice. He very nearly believes his own argument. In any case, he is not going to let such thoughts dissuade him from appreciating the warmth against his cheek or the steady rise and fall of Washington's breathing.

Three seconds later Washington chuckles. Relaxes grudgingly. His body shifts as he takes his hands off the wall and wraps his arms around Alexander. It's a loose grip, a mirror of the way Hamilton is already holding on.

"Is this all right?" Washington asks quietly.

Hamilton's heart is beating too fast, and his face is warm, and his lungs keep trying to hitch.

"Yeah," he says through all these sensations. "Yeah, we're good."

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt Words: Enhance, Swarm, Hesitate]


End file.
